Gambolling thus, like children, and happy in childish pleasures, their united lives flowed smoothly on, like some full, bright, unobstructed stream. The birth of a daughter was like the opening of a pure lily on the stream. Their happiness was now complete. Their grateful souls asked for nothing but a continuance of present blessings. But, alas, sudden as the rising of a thunder cloud, a deep shadow fell on their sunny prospect. William was called away a few days on business. He left home full of life and love, and was brought back a shattered corpse. He had been killed by an accident, in the rail-road cars. Never had Sibella known any sorrow approaching the intensity of this sorrow. It saddened her to bid farewell to that first love-picture, which never emerged out of the mistiness of dream-land; but this sober certainty of wedded happiness was such a living true reality, that all her heart-strings bled, when it was wrenched from her so suddenly. Her suffering soul would have been utterly prostrated by the dreadful blow, had it not been for the blessed ministration of her babe, and the necessity of continuing to labour for its future support and education. The body of William was buried in a pretty little grove on her father’s farm; and every year the mound was completely covered with a fresh bed of Ladies’ Delights, which his little girl learned to call “Farder’s Fower.” * * * * * Time passed and brought healing on its wings. Sibella never expected to know happiness again, but she had attained to cheerful resignation. Her little girl of three years lived at the farm, under the good grandmother’s care. She continued to teach in the city, spending all her vacations, and most of her Sundays, at the old homestead. In her memory lay a sunny island covered with Pansies, and often watered with tears. That other island of Eglantines had floated far away, and had scarcely a moonlighted existence. But one Sunday evening, as she returned from school, she found the little one watching for her, as usual. The indulgent grandmother had just given her an Eglantine blossom, for which she had been teazing. In her eagerness to bestow something on her mother, the child thrust it into her face, exclaiming “Mamma’s Fower!” That simple phrase awoke sleeping memories. Not for years had the blooming lanes of old England been so distinctly pictured in the mirror of her soul. That night, she dreamed Edward Vernon met her in the prairie and gave her a torch-flower he had gathered. The child’s exclamation had produced the train of thought of which the dream was born; and the dream induced her to look at the verses which had long remained unopened. Ten years had passed since they were written. The paper was worn at the edges, and the Eglantine blossom was yellow and wrinkled. Still the sight of it recalled the very look and tone with which it was offered. The halo of glory with which her youthful